Many Happy Returns
By Svetlana Molchanova
On my cheek, I feel the rays of the sun and open my eyes. Then I hear my husband: “If you’re forty and nothing hurts, then you’re dead.” It is my birthday today.
I shudder slightly. Normally I try to go on holiday at this time to avoid all the fuss called celebration. But this year we bought a new flat and are having it renovated, so money is tight. Travelling is not an option. I tried to get out of the looming party by pointing out that celebrating your 40th birthday was bad luck. Yet I was told that I had never been superstitious, and neither were any of them. My next move was to propose an evening gathering at a café.
“A café in a dusty and stuffy city where there is hardly any fresh air to breathe, while you have such a cozy dacha in the peaceful and quiet countryside?” – mum rolled her eyes. “And besides, we can take a dip in the river. We can move around. While in a café we will be confined to the table.” And so it was decided.
The decision was probably not a bad one. During the renovation, we are living in the dacha anyway, so having the guests over here saves us the trouble of travelling.
My phone beeps with a message, reminding me that I have things to do. Time to get up.
The reflection in the mirror shows a familiar face. A little bit puffy after sleep, but I actually prefer some chubbiness to the haggard look I will definitely have by the end of the day. For the greater part of my life, I used to look younger than I was. Even fifteen years after I came of age, shop assistants would not sell me alcohol unless I showed my passport. It all changed overnight. One day I woke up to find that I had aged over a decade. To this day I do not know the reason behind it. It was like a spell cast by a witch. Yet we live in three-dimensional reality, not a magic tale. Or do we?
Coming to terms with a new reality is never easy. Especially when your acquaintances point out your exhausted looks every time you meet them. As a result, I started wearing sunglasses and had a new haircut to conceal or at least soften the changes. I wonder if I have fooled anyone.
Suddenly the niggling feeling I have had for days crystallizes. Forty. I close my eyes. It feels like sand slipping through your fingers. Soon there will be none left.
“Mum wishes you a happy birthday,” Egor says, abruptly entering the room.
“Oh, thank you,” I respond.
“I guess, one day she will congratulate you herself.”
“Oh” is the only reply I can think of. My marriage to Egor came as a heavy blow to his snobbish mother. She thought he would marry her friend’s daughter who came from a family in the intelligentsia. The lady in question actually would have preferred a Swiss millionaire, but my mother-in-law still thinks I have ruined Egor’s life. So she has refused to talk to me ever since. However, some years ago she started congratulating me on special occasions through her son. Egor sees this as a sign of improvement and never fails to mention that one day we will certainly have a face-to-face conversation ‘like regular folks’. I’m kind of dreading that moment: the need to sustain a conversation, affecting interest and enjoyment, with a dreary… I shake off the images. It is much better if everything remains as it is.
After a quick breakfast, I start making a festive meal. It will feature cucumber tomato salad, Olivier[1], imitation crab salad, half sour pickles, meat cuts and salo, cheese plate, boiled potatoes as a side dish, and a bowl of fruit and a watermelon. There will also be a cake from a pastry shop for the afters. Egor is responsible for shashlik which, as they say, does not tolerate female hands.
When I am almost done peeling, cutting, slicing and laying the food (hopefully!) beautifully on the plates, I hear a car beeping. Without looking, I know it must be my mum and my younger sister. Greetings and congratulations follow. I get some cosmetics from my mum and a gift card from Vika. Earlier in the morning Egor gave me a bread machine. And I got a money transfer from my dad, who won’t be back from his fly-in, fly-out job till next month.
Mum volunteered to make kompot for the gathering and immediately starts unpacking her bags. “Here you are. I made it this morning. Had to cool it in a cold-water bath before pouring it into plastic bottles.”
“Thanks, mum, but I’m afraid four 1.5-liter bottles are way too much for such a small company,” I note tentatively.
“You do not have to drink it all in one go. It will be as good as freshly brewed for at least a week.” She casts a look at the shelf with grains. “And why don’t you use the containers I gave you? It’s more convenient to keep grains in containers than in packets. And they will prevent bugs from infesting your supplies.”
I doubt the last statement, but say nothing. After I decline any help in the kitchen, Egor proposes to show them around. Although both are familiar with our standard six-acre plot of land, they gladly accept the proposal. Ten minutes later mum is back, fetches some gardening gloves and starts weeding the carrots. Egor begins grilling shashlik. Vika meanwhile is taking selfies, while I am mostly busy replying to congrats. Even my sons call from summer camp. I bet someone had to remind them of the special date.
We do not have a gazebo, so we just take the table outside and put some chairs around it. A storm cloud hovers on the horizon, which I do not like, but they have not forecast rain today. So let’s keep our fingers crossed. While putting out dishes and tableware, I mentally tick off the objects already there: wheat and rye bread, salt and pepper shakers, napkins, kompot, sparkling water, red wine for the ladies, samogon that Egor distills himself and cognac just in case. A neighboring couple, whom we have known for ages, comes with a bunch of garden flowers and a box of chocolates. We sit down.
Egor raises his glass to make a toast. He starts by saying what a good wife, mother, daughter, employee, friend, etc. etc. I am. He proceeds to inform everyone of other facts they already know. That I am my boss’s right hand, I raise the kids, cultivate the garden, do sports twice a week. And what a wonderful cook I am. The guests fidget in their seats, and I can see Vika scrolling through something on her phone underneath the table. Finally, it is time for best wishes of health and happiness. “As they say,” he concludes, “it is better to be rich and healthy, than poor and ill.” Everyone stands up and clinks their glasses.
As our glasses touch, something falls on my hand. First, I think some beverage has spilled. Then there is another drop and I lift my eyes to the sky. The big storm cloud has drifted right above us. It will probably pass. I really do not want to move the table inside.
“Something has to be done,” says Vika in a peremptory tone. “Otherwise, we’re all going to get soaked.”
So we move everything inside. Our kitchen is rather small and cramped even for six people. So Egor goes and heats the banya. Soon our circle breaks in two with Egor and the male neighbor talking mostly about fishing, and mum and the neighbor’s wife discussing family members. Sometimes when I am not busy making others try some dish or offering seconds I also join in. And so does Vika, who in all likelihood finds our gathering extremely boring.
At one point I go out of the house and see a fancy car crawling along our dirt road. It stops and out gets a handsome man. “Excuse me,” he says, “it seems I got lost. How do I reach the main road?”
I go nearer so we don’t have to shout. His face seems vaguely familiar. “Vadim?” I ask.
He looks at me carefully. Then he smiles and says: “Oh, hello Katia!”
We used to go to school together, but I have not seen anything of Vadim for ages. I have heard that he got rich and runs his own business in Moscow.
“I am really surprised to see you here,” I begin. “How have you been doing?”
“Can’t complain. Thanks. I spent the weekend with a friend of mine and now I’m heading back. Only you seem to have quite an intricate road system here. I tried to call my friend, but couldn’t reach him.”
“You know, it’s my birthday today.” My voice surprises me.
“Wow. Happy eighteenth birthday again! Hope you stay young and beautiful! Sorry, no present.” Vadim looks around as if to see whether he might unearth a present nearby.
“Oh, no worries! Would you like to join in the celebration?”
“With pleasure,” he grins, “but only for a little while. I have to pop into one more place today.”
With that, Vadim parks near the fence and we head to the house.
They all turn their heads when we enter the room and look startled.
“This is Vadim. We used to go to school together.” I introduce the newcomer. “He was visiting his friend and happened to use this road on the way back.”
Polite handshaking and head nodding follow, and the others move closer to each other to make room for one more person.
“Vadim, what would you like to drink?” Egor asks, pointing at the assortment of different bottles.
“Just water. I am behind the wheel.”
“We might have an alcohol-free beer,” I remark. “Just let me look in the fridge.” And sure enough there is one can.
With the addition to our company, the conversation naturally drifts to the life of the newcomer. Soon we learn that he has a lucrative road construction business in Moscow, a Russian cottage (mansion) in the Moscow region, a son and ex-wife.
With the banya hot enough, I make sure that there are enough towels and felt hats to go round. The gentlemen, being courteous, suggest observance of the ladies first principle. I do not feel like sweat bathing so I excuse myself by referring to my high blood pressure reading in the morning.
“Have you taken your medication?” mum asks me.
Of course, I have. It feels like mum thinks I can never be trusted to take proper care of myself, even though I have a family of my own.
The women stand up and head out of the room. While passing, my neighbor touches my arm and says softly: “Your mum has a heart of gold. My father-in-law is recovering from a stroke, and she promised to give him a Zipper frame. Thank you! You are so lucky to have her as your mum!”
“Yes,” I agree, “she’s the most helpful person I know.”
Soon Egor and the male neighbor also leave the room to have a fag. We are alone with Vadim.
“Do you know that we have a class reunion every May 25?” I start.
“Uh-huh, on the day of the Last Bell. Someone told me. I’d love to join in one day, though I’m afraid it is often not really feasible with all the travelling I have to do.”
“This year more than half of the class came. I suppose you have heard that Nastia and Roma got married last year?”
“Oh, it’s about time! They sat at the same desk in school, if I remember correctly,” Vadim remarked. “What was it that finally made them tie the knot?”
Conversation flows freely, and time flies. It feels so pleasant talking to Vadim. We are on the same wavelength. Sometimes he starts a sentence, and I pick it up and continue. I lean forward and smile.
Suddenly, I see my husband in the doorway. “Katia, there’s an emergency,” he says briskly. “The flat is being flooded.” What? It feels as if my faculties fail me and I can’t understand what’s going on.
“I got a call from the decorator,” he explains. “He noticed a big damp stain on the ceiling. It seems something went wrong in the flat above us. We need to go there quick. So it’s necessary to speed up the ladies in the banya.”
I run to the ladies and, in a confused speech, explain that we have to wrap it up. I feel furious, but powerless. My mind is spinning. Is there anyone we can ask to go upstairs and deal with it? Can the Uzbek decorator do that? I talk to my husband.
“He went,” Egor replies. “But no one answered the door. I contacted the block management company and also wrote in our condo group chat. But it looks like the owner is not a member of the chat and even the management company does not have their contact details. I also called the emergency service to have the water in the riser pipe shut off, but they say they can act only when requested by the owner of the flat where the accident has occurred.”
WTF. We are trapped in a vicious circle. Who knows when we will be able to stop the water from flooding us. The owners might be on holiday or might have left the country altogether. And no one cares!
“The banya stove is still burning,” mum points out. “It’s necessary to wait till the wood has burnt down.”
She is right. We need to make sure everything is all right here first.
“You and Egor go,” mum continues. “You can’t lose any time. I will stay and put everything in order here.”
“Oh, thanks, mum.” At least one worry is off my shoulders.
“Hey, can we have the keys?” Vika asks. “So we can lock the doors when we are leaving.” Egor gives them a spare set and explains which one goes where.
But it turns out we are not leaving, at least not yet. Obviously, after celebrating, we are not fit to drive a car. And no taxi drivers are willing to come pick us up. Well, one agreed, but changed his mind on the way. I had tried offering additional pay on top of the fare and selecting the business class option, but nothing worked.”
“Why is it like that?” I ask.
“I guess they’re afraid we might cancel the order, and it’ll be next to impossible to find other riders here. Everyone either drives their own car or goes by elektrichka,” Egor explains.
“Well, I can take you to the flat and then come back to pick up mum, if there’s no other way,” Vika suggests. I can clearly see she would rather not spend the rest of the day ferrying everyone around.
“You know, I’m heading to the city, so I might as well give you a lift,” Vadim offers. “Where’s your new flat?”
I give the full address. A strange look crosses his eye, then he casts his gaze on the floor.
“Well, I’m afraid I was too hasty in offering you a ride. I have to be in a different part of the city in an hour and a half, and I might not make it on time if I go that way.”
“Oh, you don’t have to take us to the destination. That would be too much, and we don’t want to disrupt your plans. If you could just drop us somewhere in the city,” there is a tinge of imploring in my voice, “We’ll call a taxi from there. It won’t be a problem.”
“That I can surely do,” Vadim replies with a smile.
Soon we get into Vadim’s car and hit the road. He tries to raise our spirits by regaling us with amusing stories, and I try to keep the conversation going. Egor looks out of the window, his lips tightly compressed and a furrow between his eyes.
Suddenly, the cars slow to a crawl. “Damn it,” Egor mutters under his breath.
It seems we got stuck in a Sunday traffic jam – everyone returning from the countryside.
“It’s definitely a nuisance!” Vadim remarks. “Might it be a big one?”
Well, chances are we will be crawling till we reach the city. Only then will the vehicles disperse along various roads. I groan inwardly. Why now, when we need to get to the city as quickly as possible? Though how we are to find the owners of the flat above us is unclear to me. But still, when we are on the spot we can at least do something. Now we can only sit and wait.
The passing minutes seem like eternity with cars crawling at 10 kilometers per hour. Then a car overtakes us from the right, raising dust as it goes along the roadside. Two more decide to follow it. If we were using our own car, I feel we would certainly join the crowd in the breakdown lane. I know it’s against the law, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Of course, I do not even suggest such an option to Vadim. We cannot exploit his kindness.
Slowly, but surely we move ahead. After some time, fields and windbreaks give way to a row of road cafes and motels for long haul truckers, then we go past some malls that, like identical twins, differ only in name and enter the city. “You can drop us somewhere around here,” I say to Vadim. “Thank you soooo much. We owe you big time.” We get out and Vadim dashes away.
“What a chatterbox!” Egor rubs his temples.
“And what are you, then?” I glare at him. “The guy was kind enough to give us a lift. We should be really grateful to him!”
“Drama queen,” Egor labels me.
“Look, who’s talking!” I retort.
All the way to our flat, I scroll my phone, trying to find a solution to our disaster. What do people do when they are being flooded from above? I mean, what do they do to deal with the matter efficiently? All the websites offer an identical tick-the-box route: First, attempt to resolve the problem peacefully, and, in case that fails, go to court. It’s all fine and well, and easy in theory, I sigh. Egor pours his heart out to the taxi driver, and they are engaged in a lively conversation blaming careless neighbors, faulty plumbing fixtures, irresponsible block management companies, the government… you name it.
A few more kilometers, a few more turns, and we are home. Upon entering the flat we see a big stain on the ceiling of the kids’ bedroom and the wallpaper in the corner is damp and peeling off. The renovation of this room was completed just a few days ago. Now we will need to redo it. Pour in more money, spend more time… just because someone living above was not careful enough. They are the reason for our mess, yet we are to clean it up. I hate my neighbors with every fiber of my soul.
Next we go upstairs and ring our neighbor’s bell.
“It seems the doorbell does not work,” Egor remarks and presses the adjacent bell. We hear the flat door being unlocked and a female voice asking, “Who’s there?”
“We are your neighbors from the seventh floor, flat 156,” Egor explains. “We need your neighbor from flat 162; our flat is being flooded! But their doorbell doesn’t work.” The old lady, uh-ohing, opens the entrance door into the shared hallway with their flats. We enter.
“Has Oleg made a mess?” she asks no one in particular. “He’s a good guy,” she continues, “but he drinks heavily. And when he’s drunk he cannot control himself. He’s been like this since he got back from the Chechen War. When Nina, his mum, was alive she tried to keep things in order. But now no one is there for him.”
Meanwhile Egor is banging on Oleg’s door. The noise he is making does have an effect, and we hear footsteps, then the door is flung open.
“Get out of here, motherfuckers! This is my home!” A man with a bloated brick-red face and bloodshot eyes clenches his fist to give a punch, but Egor is quick to step aside. The drunk hits the opposite wall. He groans, but turns back ready to attack again. He steps towards Egor, trying to grab him. Instead he finds himself in a joint lock unable to move. Well, having an athletic title in sambo can certainly come in handy. The man makes a growling sound.
“Oh, you’ll break his arm,” the old lady laments. “Now do let him go.”
“Don’t worry. He’s all right,” Egor assures her. “They say it is good to be close to one’s neighbors.” Egor looks at me, “Now, the guy needs to get back to normal, and we need to help him.”
Then he instructs me to go buy some food and the ingredients for a cocktail to sober him up. I do as requested and also fetch some plasticware because I doubt there is anything clean and usable in the flat. Egor mixes the ingredients and makes the attacker drink it. The latter has no choice but to do so, though he grimaces with every sip.
“Do you really have to contort your face like that?” Egor sounds a bit offended. “Take it like medicine.”
After he finishes his drink, the man looks down, breathing heavily, and then raises his eyes to us. The change is startling. His look is no longer glassy, but rational, his manner subdued.
“Egor,” my husband extends his hand for a handshake. The man gazes at him as if doubting what to do next.
“Oleg,” he replies at last, slightly touching Egor’s hand.
“Oleg, our flat is below yours and we are being flooded. There’s a big stain on the ceiling and the wallpaper is wet.”
Oleg slowly gets back on his feet and goes into another room. We follow him. I have never seen such a mess in my life. Dirty clothes, wastepaper, empty bottles are scattered on the floor. The floor itself is covered with a thick layer of dust. A cockroach crosses the hall, running away from us. The odor is unbearable: alcohol, rotten food, decaying leftovers, unwashed body. It makes me sick.
“Oleg, we’ll have a look in the bathroom,” my husband says.
The owner nods and gestures to the right. We go, without taking off our shoes. Indeed I regret wearing sandals, not sneakers. They would have made me feel more protected from the dirt.
The bathroom is on par with the hall. Dirty tiles, filthy sanitary (actually, unsanitary) items, rusty pipes, litter scattered everywhere. The faucet is leaking. Only half of the sink is left, and the water is dripping on the floor. Egor tries to turn the tap off, but it is still leaking. He then turns the spout, so the water goes into something resembling a bathtub.
There is a pool on the floor that runs into a cavity under the bathtub. It must be filled to the brim with leaking water. And that is seeping through the concrete floor slab and into our ceiling! Oh, calm down I tell myself. We need to clean up the mess. We need cloths to absorb the water, maybe even containers to scoop it out, and rubber gloves. I leave the bathroom and ask Oleg for cleaning tools. He looks around as if it is the first time he has seen his flat.
“You can borrow mine,” the elderly neighbor offers. I guess she entered the flat together with us to lecture Oleg.
“Oh, thank you. We’ll buy you new ones,” I add, realizing that the ones we are about to use will probably be good for nothing after they come into contact with such dirt.
As the lady is fetching them, Egor phones an emergency service and asks for a plumber to come. This time the request is granted. Then we do all the dirty work. It takes about half an hour to clean the bathroom floor.
When we are done, I exit the bathroom, and my gaze falls on a photo hanging from the wall. I move closer to take a careful look. A large woman with pulled-back hair is sitting in the middle; there are two boys, one to the right, the other to the left of her, one – in his teens and the other some seven or eight years his junior. The younger boy is undoubtedly Vadim, with the same funny haircut he used to have in primary school. Mum enjoys browsing old photos, so I have seen our class pictures dozens of times.
“Oh, it’s Oleg with his mom and younger brother. I forgot what his name was.” Oleg’s neighbor is standing next to me. “He’s in Moscow now, and they say he rolls in money. But we haven’t seen anything of him for ages. I guess the last time he came was a couple of years ago for his mom’s funeral.”
Suddenly I feel exhausted and emotionally drained. All I want is to be back home, curl up in bed, close my eyes and forget the events of today. But the day is not over yet.
When the plumber arrives, we go downstairs and have a look at our ceiling. Then Egor and the plumber return to Oleg’s place. The plumber installs a new faucet in Oleg’s flat, and Egor pays for the faucet and the work. I remain in our flat and then, because staring at the ceiling does no good, take the elevator downstairs to get a breath of fresh air.
We return to the dacha when it is already dark. I ask Egor what we should do next. “The plumber says the stain might dry out and disappear,” he replies. “I’ll have a look at it tomorrow. And I’ll contact the insurance companies and get the flat insured. I’m afraid it might happen again.” I sigh.
A few hours later, we enter the dacha. I am pleased to see it is clean and tidy. Mum has cleared the table and stacked up the fridge. Inside, I can see towers of containers and plates covered with cling wrap. The banya is also clean and dry. “Thanks, mum,” I say inwardly. “It’s nice to have you around.”
Footnotes
[1] Russian Salad